For the next few days, the atmosphere in the house grew noticeably heavier.
Everyone carried their own thoughts about Yuma, each trapped in quiet contemplation. On the surface, nothing seemed amiss — meals were prepared, doors opened and closed, greetings were exchanged. Yet if one looked closely, the difference was unmistakable. Something had shifted, subtly but irrevocably.
Yuma, however, remained unchanged.
Unaware of what had stirred beneath the calm exterior of the household, he continued as he always had — polite, distant, careful. Retreating into himself without knowing that, for once, eyes were finally on him.
“Should we have dinner outside tonight?” Shuuji asked one evening.
Yuma blinked, momentarily caught off guard.
Usually, there was no question — only a brief notice of plans already decided.
“Sorry,” he said after a pause, a small smile forming too neatly on his lips. “I need to work overtime tonight.”
It was a lie.
They all saw it.
The forced curve of his mouth. The way his gaze slid away, never quite meeting theirs.
No one called him out.
The following morning, Sasaki hesitated as she stood by the kitchen counter.
“Is there anything you’d like to eat?” she asked carefully.
Yuma shook his head almost at once.
“You can make nee-san’s favourite,” he replied, his voice gentle, accommodating. The smile returned — small, restrained, practiced.
At that moment, an unsettling thought struck them all.
Had Yuma ever smiled brightly?
Not that polite smile — but a real one. Wide. Unrestrained.
What did his laughter sound like?
Did he laugh loudly? Or had he never done so at all?
No one could remember.
Over the next few days, each of them tried, in their own way, to reach out. A question here. A suggestion there. Small, tentative attempts that felt strangely clumsy. Their interactions were stiff, uncertain — burdened by a sense of unfamiliarity that had no right to exist.
Only now did they realise it.
When they thought about it further, another truth surfaced — one that unsettled them even more.
They could not picture Yuma’s room.
They knew every corner of one another’s spaces.
Arisa had an additional glass wardrobe dedicated entirely to her handbag collection — premium, exclusive, limited editions displayed with pride. Kotarou’s room was defined by the glass cabinet that housed his crystal animal figurines, each one carefully arranged and dusted. Haruma’s room was lined with bookshelves, one devoted solely to novels — a remnant of the long months he had been confined to bed during recovery. Photographs adorned his walls: celebrations, holidays, candid moments with family.
But Yuma’s room?
What was inside it?
When was the last time any of them had knocked on his door and stepped inside, simply to talk?
They could not remember.
Yet Yuma had been a frequent visitor to their rooms.
The realisation settled heavily in the air — unspoken, unresolved.
And still, no one said anything.
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